


Long and Lost

by spookywoods



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9181960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywoods/pseuds/spookywoods
Summary: “My house is perfectly fine.” It wasn’t. “I am fine.” He wasn’t. When he did sleep, he dreamt of the darkness, of Grindelwald’s hands binding him, of the face smirking down at him as he shut the door of the closet. Graves dreamt of fighting the dark wizard, falling, inevitably, each time too weak to beat the man who’d already bested him.But sometimes, he dreamt of Credence.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please, be gentle. 
> 
> The title, Long and Lost, is the Florence + the Machine song of that same name, haunting, perfect, and so very much an inspiration for this fic.

 

Light. Suddenly it was everywhere.

He cringed, balled himself up, hugged his legs and hid his face.

“Graves!” someone shouted. He closed his eyes, a silent wish that the darkness would return. When a hand wrapped around his wrist, the skin burned at the touch. Surprise hit him at the thought that he still had skin, that he hadn’t withered away to nothing yet. “He’s bound. Get the kit!” the voice belonging to the fiery touch said. Murmurs danced around him, but Graves could only focus on the sudden feeling of being encased in his own body again. Had he been somewhere else? Someone else? His mind clutched at the edges begging for the darkness to take him again.

Minutes passed before someone uncurled Graves from the closet. They spread him out, down, examined, leaving trails of more touches, hushed voices. These strangers tried to piece together what happened to him while trying to put him back together.

“He must have been in there for months,” one of them said and then noted his hair, his beard, the sallow, sunken points of his face. No one had to tell him, he knew. His body faded each day, a slow pace trailing behind the tatters of his broken mind. He searched, almost in a panic, for a shred of the comfort he’d found in nothingness, but to no avail.

The last thing he remembered before falling back in the darkness, was the inky black surrounding his vision, and the distant call to something dark and demanding. The voice in his head called to him, urged him to rise and reclaim what was taken. _“Unbind yourself. Reclaim yourself,”_ it whispered. _“Join me.”_

 

\---

Three months later

\---

 

_A knock rattled his office door, and Percival Graves dropped his quill in frustration._

_“What now?” he barked_

_A secretary from the President’s office scuttled in and stared at the floor. “Director Graves, sir, sorry to bother you.”_

_Graves sighed and nodded. “Out with it then.”_

_Her eyes widened and she gulped. “The president wishes you to handle the situation with the Second Salemers yourself.”_

_“I see,” he sat back, crossing his arms. It was a right mess, Porpentina Goldstein’s attack on the no-maj. There wasn’t a thing he could do to help her keep her job. In his view, she was lucky to get demoted and not banned from MACUSA completely._

_The secretary stared at him, her eyebrows slowly rising._

_  
_ _“What? Now?” Graves spat. “Fuck, this is not--you can tell Seraphina I’m off to do this and taking the rest of the day.” He stood and grabbed his coat, his ivory scarf, and black gloves. “Handle it myself,” he shook his head. “This is all quite beneath me and I hope you tell her that.”_

_“She wanted you to take Miss Ellen Downing to oversee--”_

_“I will not be supervised,” Graves interrupted. “If she insists I do it myself, then I will.”_  

_Graves rushed out of the office without a second glance back and made for the exit hopeful to avoid any conversation. It had been bad enough sacking one of his best aurors, but being sent to clean up the mess himself? And with a spy? That was a kick, wasn’t it? He did owe Seraphina a great deal. The president had stood up for him years before when his character had been called into question during a string of no-maj murders. He’d repaid her with political support and an infallible record as Director of Magical Security. In his mind, he deserved autonomy._

_The cool air of mid morning cleared his thoughts, and he made his way toward the site of the incident. It wasn’t long before he found the church and the leader spewing more ridiculous hate and sentiments. Graves waited in the shadows of an alley for the sermon to end and the crowd to disperse. As it cleared, something from the opposite end caught his eye._

_A lanky boy stood to the side of the Barebone woman. His poor posture and terrible attire made him almost invisible, but his dark stare bore into Graves like a curse. Without meaning to, Graves stepped forward out from the shade of the alley, unable to look away from the boy. Upon further inspection, he wasn’t so young. Maybe in his late teens or early twenties. Graves took another step before someone walked in front of him and broke the connection. When he glanced back, the boy was gone._

_He had to be the one--Credence, was it?--who Tina had been protecting. It was no matter, he’d find him later. Graves set his sight on the Barebone woman with the intent to Obliviate. He followed her into the church, careful not to be seen, and with practised skill, performed the spell in record time. She’d have no memory of the attack._

_He slipped out quietly, intent to find the boy--Credence. But the task proved difficult. While the other children were still passing leaflets to passersby, Credence had disappeared._

_After minutes of searching the block, Graves was almost keen on leaving when he spotted the hunched figure of the boy in the same alley he’d vacated._

_He approached with caution, and with each step something dark, almost sensuous seemed to reach for him. “Credence Barebone,” he said when he finally stood next to him._

_Tense shoulders jerked, and the boy turned, lifting his head slowly to meet Graves’ eyes. The sting of it hit him again--the dark coil of something powerful. It was addictive, the sensation of that stare, and if Graves could fall into it, he probably would have._

_“I’m here because of Tina Goldstein, the woman who stopped your---”_

_“I-I know who you are,” Credence said. He finally turned to face Graves, squaring his shoulders, standing straight. The boy was a hair taller than Graves. He stared at the top of his head then let his eyes cascade down his face. Credence was malnourished, but the stretch of his skin over bone was breathtaking. “I know what you came to do,” he added._

_Graves furrowed his brow in concern. “I don’t mean to hurt you, Credence, but I can’t let you remember.” He moved to grab his arm, but Credence stood back, turned away, stepped further into the alley. The loss of proximity sent a chill through Graves. So he followed Credence. “I have to take your memories, that’s all it is. It won’t hurt you.”_

_The boy turned back, tears forming in his eyes. “I want to remember, does that matter?”_

_“I’m sorry,” Graves shook his head. “It’s the law.”_

_“I guess I couldn’t stop you.” At the admission, Credence faced him fully, invited Graves to do his part._

_Graves closed the distance between them, raised his hands and clutched the boy’s shoulders. The flare of something dark and beautiful pulled at him again and the sensation caused Graves to close his eyes. He gripped Credence’s shoulders as a steady stream of languid pleasure connected them. It drew him in and before he knew what he was doing, he had leaned forward and rested his forehead against the boy’s._

_“You have power,” he managed to say. The force of it was engulfing him, teasing him. His eyes snapped open and he pulled away.  “What are you?”_

_Credence stared, shocked. “I--I--am a sinner...a-a--”_

_“You are something,” Graves shook his head. He wanted to touch him again, to feel the energy shared between them. But he refrained. Instead, he turned his back._

_“You’ll leave them, then?” Credence asked, a hint of hope in his tone._

_Graves nodded without thinking. The boy held something within him, magic--or perhaps something dark, raw--and Graves knew it was more powerful than anything he’d ever experienced._

_“Your memories are--yours to keep,” he replied. And without a second glance, he left the alley and Credence behind him._

_The idea of something to be discovered, something to be awakened, it sent a sort of purpose through Percival Graves that he’d never quite experienced. All he could think about on the walk home were the teasing sensations where the force had reached for him. The darkness in those eyes, the pull to the young man. Credence held a gift within him, and Graves was intent on being the one to discover what it was._

_He took the turn to his brownstone without much thought, and barely noted the shadow of clouds overhead. He’d reach his door before it started raining. His mind fluttered with the possibility of something dark and magnificent, beautiful._

_Perhaps if he’d not been so distracted by Credence, Graves would have noticed the man ducked down below the stairs. Perhaps if he’d not been thinking of dark eyes, chapped lips, and the potential next meeting with the boy, Graves would have heard the snap of the curse._

_Perhaps if he’d not immediately become devoted to Credence Barebone, he could have given Grindelwald what the dark wizard really wanted._

_Perhaps if he had--_

 

“Graves!” 

He bolted up and blinked. Goldstein stood in the doorway of his office gaping at him.

“You slept here,” she shook her head, “again?”

He straightened his back and glared at her. “I’ve been back three days, there’s just a lot of paperwork to catch up on.”

She sat in front of him. “You can admit that you don’t want to go back to your house.”

“My house is perfectly fine.” It wasn’t. “I am fine.” He wasn’t. When he did sleep, he dreamt of the darkness, of Grindelwald’s hands binding him, of the face smirking down at him as he shut the door of the closet. Graves dreamt of fighting the dark wizard, falling, inevitably, each time too weak to beat the man who’d already bested him.

But sometimes, he dreamt of Credence. He’d meet the boy, discover him, and leave, like he always did. Only sometimes he’d stay, revel in the touches, the charged nature of their connection. Sometimes, Percival Graves got lost in the darkness of those eyes, and woke up panting, hard, practically on fire.

He thanked the fates he hadn’t had one of those dreams just now.

Tina shot him a look of disbelief and shrugged. “Well, there’s a case for you if you want it.” She handed him a file and gave a brief summary. Graves watched her carefully, saw her wash her face in neutrality, heard her skim over the words _murder_ and _spell remnants._

He glanced at the folder. “Atlantic City? Really?”

“Do you want the distraction or not?” she asked.

Graves seethed but nodded. The fact was he needed something to fill his mind, something other than the absent purpose that haunted him. He lost himself sitting in familiar places with the inclination to wonder what Grindelwald did in them while he wore Graves’ skin. It didn’t help being at work where he could find testimonies to what the dark wizard had done. Half the recordings didn’t even distinguish between the two of them. Most of the lower level staff were allowed to testify using “Graves”, only to have the interviewer clarify at the end with a brief statement that it was in fact Grindelwald, and “ _not Graves”_.

It’s the _Not Graves_ that haunted him still. The minor changes, the notes left behind, and the overwhelming realization that no one knew the difference between them. Not a single auror, not even Goldstein, his brightest pupil. And Seraphina--too caught up in her political schemes to notice the difference.

Maybe that realization hit him worst--that there really wasn’t a difference between him and Grindelwald at all.

 

Graves found himself on the train to Atlantic City, the file discarded in his briefcase, his eyes following the lights as they blurred. He didn’t need to know anything more about the dead pimp, or the rescued prostitutes. He didn’t need to see the wall where the spell had ricocheted. He’d meet with the city liaison, they’d discuss the case and the interviews, and Graves would inevitably find the rogue witch and subdue them. 

Maybe he’d have a good no-maj drink while he was there. Maybe he’d chase some of the darkness inside him. He knew there would always be a chase because, frankly, there was nothing left for him to find. _No one left,_ he frowned.

Graves entered Haddon Hall through one of the side doors guarded by wards. The heat on the other side was intoxicating. He knew such places had higher concentrations of protective magic, but this was an extreme.

Climbing two flights of stairs, Graves found he was sweating. He strode down a long hallway lined with portraits doing various devious things, ignored their jeers and taunts. Upon entry to the great room, he was greeted by a house elf for his coat.

“Name?” it requested.

“Percival Graves.”

“Thanks you, sir.”

Graves turned to the room and took a step forward, piercing the smoke. The haze of it lingered around the tables, around the maddening gamblers, the drunkards, and the lasciviously inclined. The magical underbelly of Atlantic City housed illegals and unlawful happenings, but it was so confined to an area that MACUSA usually left it to its own proclivities.

With each step, he maneuvered through the tables and felt a bitter emptiness lurch inside his gut. Every laugh, every cheer, it dug into him and left him hollower.

He approached the bar and ordered a scotch. The bartender, a halfling of some sort, levitated up the shelves of the bar behind to grab the bottle. On his way down, he snatched a glass, poured it mid air, and set the drink in front of Graves without a second glance.

“Graves,” a man stood at his side. When he turned, he found he didn’t recognise him. “Godfrey Hemsling,” he held out his hand. Graves grabbed his scotch and took a sip.

“I understand there’s been a murder,” was the only reply Graves could offer.

Hemsling snorted. “Well, there’s been _six_ murders, most of them solved, I’ll have you know. And MACUSA could do right by sending the help we asked for in a more timely manner.”

At the mention of multiple murders, Graves set his glass down and turned to the man. “I only have the murdered pimp on record. And according to your notes, it was one of the veela call girls who did him in.”

Hemsling sighed and started in on a story involving a bad pimp, a pair of part veela sisters, and a client from one of the oldest pureblood American families. He described the violent confrontation from beginning to end, which Graves agreed was the only possible explanation of events.

“But in your notes, you mentioned the markings on his face. Burns and scrapes? And the ricocheted spell?”

The other man nodded. “Unexplained wounds. The women would never have been able to inflict such dark magic in the their panicked state. And the smoke--”

Graves perked up. “Smoke?”

Hemsling retold one of the women’s descriptions of an inky black ichor, a smoke that billowed fierce and then retreated in a hurry. Graves scarcely let himself breathe at the mention of a black smoke. He downed the rest of his scotch and signaled for firewhiskey.

The conversation turned to the other crimes, notably unrelated. The theft of the contents of a rich guest’s safe, the utter destruction of a booze drop gone wrong, the brutal killing of a street evangelist that revealed sexual abuse on his family. “Each crime explainable, the magic mostly traceable. But each was marked by the starkness of something darker. And each, a witness stating they had seen a thick, black smoke edging away from the scene.”

Graves barely contained any composure. His pulse raced with something like--hope--excitement. _Could it be--?_ No. The reports had been clear. The auror attack had killed Credence Barebone. _But an Obscurial so close, so soon._ He couldn’t let himself wander into those violent, blissful thoughts. He ordered another firewhiskey.

Hemsling stared. “Should you--are you sure you’re alright?”

A faint, sardonic smile graced Graves’ lips before he replied, “I’m fine.” He wasn’t. If he was honest, which he rarely was, he longed to meet any Obscurial with the hope he’d feel a tenth of what Credence had given him. Deeper in his mind, where the darkness had burrowed most, Graves wished for Credence above all, the young man he’d met in the alley or the thunderous titan who’d destroyed half of Manhattan. If he was really being honest, Graves wanted the latter.

He turned to tell Hemsling to keep on with the crime scene descriptions, but stopped. There--

\--in the corner of the room--past the smoke and the sultry haze--the dark gaze of something reached for him. Graves jolted forward, to chase, to discover. He rushed through the maze of waiters, patrons, dolled up men and women, but upon reaching the other end of the room found nothing. Graves stared at the spot, glanced left and right, could barely breathe. Was he haunted? He could have sworn Credence had been beckoning him forward.

He laughed, feeling the onslaught of disappointment and the crushed spirit of his only wish. “Credence,” he whispered. The sound was drowned out by the liveliness around him.  

By the time Hemsling caught up with him, Graves was shaking his head. “I’m going to turn in for the night,” he offered the other man. “You can have my fresh eyes and ears in the morning.”

Hemsling didn’t seem impressed, but nodded a goodnight and left a still breathless Graves standing there unable to understand what had just happened to him. Was he hallucinating now? Projecting? Or was something altogether more sinister at play? There were a number of things in the magical world that would show you your greatest desire before ripping you to shreds.

 _Would that be so terrible?_ he mused. Graves remained there for quite some time, not looking at anything in particular, before heading to the hotel and settling into his room with a fresh bottle of firewhiskey.

When sleep did claim him hours later, he dreamt of the alley. He found himself alone, pacing, frantic with some unknown concern he couldn’t identify. Graves wiped his brow, felt the sweat of nerves, but the chill of the air sent shivers through him too. After awhile, he turned, and in the shadows he could make out the eyes that tormented him. He stepped forward, ready to fall into the darkness.

“Credence,” he whispered.

The form of the boy pressed forward, only he didn’t step. His form held a brightness, but was shrouded in black. He reflected the light around them. Graves stopped breathing as Credence pushed closer, floating, caressing the ground in a rolling, dark smoke. Their stare sent Graves spinning, pierced him through and through, and the dizzying effect urged him closer. He stepped into the dark embrace as Credence closed the distance between them, plumes of thick smoke billowing around them.

“Join me,” he said before engulfing Graves completely.

Graves woke on the floor of his room, covered in a cold sweat, panting. He pressed his hand to his pounding heart, and then to his crotch, wet from his recent orgasm. He could swear he could still feel the sensation of being enveloped in something fierce, almost electric. He closed his eyes and tried to hold on to the feeling.

If he’d been honest, which he never was, he’d have admitted to seeing something in the corner of his vision before closing his eyes. If he’d been honest, Graves would have let himself acknowledge the traces of black smoke rolling away and under the hotel room door.

If he was going to be honest, he’d tasted something like fire on his lips.


End file.
